by Vi Carter
I don’t wait but race for the door. My panicked feet slip on some of the broken wood, and the floor races upward. I hit the ground hard and start to crawl toward freedom. My hands cross the threshold of the doorway before I’m dragged back. My stomach is burning as pieces of broken wood poke and cut my flesh.
I spin in his hands as he flips me over. My feet kick out, missing their mark completely.
He reaches down with large, angry hands and drags me off the ground. I’m waiting for him to hit me. He wants to hit me, but instead, he releases me and pushes me aside. The back of my legs hit the table. I’m reacting without thought, and that’s not always a bad thing. The tray of food flies towards his receding back. The plate shatters, and food is flung across the floor, but it’s enough to stun him as he stumbles and falls to the ground. I run again, only this time I’m more careful of my footing as I make it out of the glass box. I turn and start tapping the panel to close the door, but it’s not closing, and he’s standing up, rubbing the back of his head. His hand comes away coated in blood, and I freeze at the sight of red.
“What is going on?” A voice behind me has me scrambling away from the door of the box. A man wearing a pair of glasses raises his hands. His bald head reflects the light of the room. The man who I just hurt walks out of the box and takes a threatening step toward me.
I move back.
“Go upstairs.” The bald man doesn’t look away from me, and he keeps his hands raised in a gesture that I assume is to make me believe he isn’t a threat. He is here, so that makes him a threat.
“But…” The other man starts.
“Now!”
The warning I hear causes me to take another step backward.
The bald man doesn’t speak again until we are alone. “Upstairs is filled with trained men, whom you won’t get past.”
My legs tremble with adrenaline. I rub the back of my shaking hand across my face. “I just got past him.” My voice is small, and I don’t recognize it.
The bald man smiles as he nods. He takes a small step towards me, like I might not notice, but I see the movement. “Yes, you did. Now, it’s time to go back in the box.”
I half glance over my shoulder; there has to be a door down here.
“There is no way out, only those stairs.” The bald man slowly drops his hands, and I wonder if his patience has run out. “You’re also bleeding, and someone needs to look at that.”
I don't look down. I can feel the warm liquid along my stomach and legs. “Someone? You mean you?” I take another step back.
He exhales loudly. “You don’t want to do this with me. Trust me, I’ll win.”
I turn, and he curses as I sprint around the outside perimeter of the box, I turn the corner, and he’s nearly on my heels. I run until I hit another corner. There is enough space here in the basement for a car but I don’t see any doors. Turning back toward the box, the only way out is the stairs.
Hands grip my arms, and I try to pull away, but the bald man’s grip is surprisingly strong.
“Don’t put me back in there.” I’m screaming as he drags me back. “Nooo!” I kick my legs, but all I end up doing is hitting the ground. My arms are still in his tight grasp, which stops me from protecting myself against the concrete floor. My head takes the brunt before he drags me to my feet. The door to the glass box is right in front of me, and I’m pushed across the threshold.
Spinning, I watch the door close as the bald man glares at me.
It’s not a calmness that settles around my shoulders. It’s the hands of the grim reaper that keep me still on the floor as I wait for him to return. The lighting down here doesn’t alter, so I don’t know whether it’s night or day. I’m on the floor with my knees dragged up to my chest. I have moments of clarity like I can make this add up like I can see a way out and know I just need to wait for another opportunity to escape. Then terror takes over, screaming that I’m going to die.
Tears fall hard and fast from my eyes, and I swallow one sob after another. There are worse things than death. I know this. Death sometimes almost seems kind.
I don’t hear him come down the stairs. I can’t say how I know he’s coming; I just do. He’s standing a foot away from the box in a suit that is made just for him; dark eyes that remove any light from the space are pinned on me.
My stomach tightens painfully. I should stand. I should be in a position where I can protect myself, but my limbs aren’t taking directions from the signals my brain is sending them. Instead, there are only pools of darkness.
“You’re hurt.” His deep voice has my eyes fluttering closed.
“I want to go home.” My voice isn’t strong, and I look back up at him.
He juts out his chin sharply. “I’ve already told you, Claire. You aren’t going anywhere.”
My limbs push up, and I’m standing. “You can’t do this.” I can’t accept this. “What do you want?” I’m half afraid of the answer, but my bones, along with my skin, are so tight, I’m ready to snap.
“When I tell you, you aren’t leaving, it means. You. Aren’t. Leaving.” His hands move behind his back. With his head held high, his height really takes root with me. He must be well over six foot tall, and with wide shoulders, I had no chance of escaping him or fighting off someone his size.
“Trying to escape was foolish.” His lip twitches before resettling. His hands leave his back as he takes out his phone from his trousers pocket. He raises the device, and I think he’s taking photos of me, so I turn away quickly until I hear his deep voice.
“Bring down Eamon.”
I spin around. Eamon? Who’s Eamon, and what is he going to do to me? I’m moving backward deeper into the glass box, but there is nowhere to hide, just like the creator had intended.
The man I attacked, along with the bald man, step into the basement.
“Eamon.” My captor’s deep voice doesn’t just rattle me, I see nothing but fear in Eamon’s eyes that dart in my direction.
“Sir, I’m sorry.” Eamon starts.
My captor cuts him off with a raised finger and a cutting smile that has me looking at the bald man.
The bald man’s face is alight with excitement, and my fear triples.
“Sorry. You should never be sorry. You own what you did.”
Eamon opens his mouth to speak, but my captor once again holds up a finger, silencing him. “What you did was to royally fuck up, Eamon.”
“I’ll do anything.” Eamon’s voice isn’t strong.
“You can go.” My captor directs towards the bald man, who doesn’t look happy at his new order, but leaves.
Dark eyes swing back to me, and I step away from the dark abyss, only to hit the wall. The coldness seeps further into my bones, and I don’t know what to do.
Eamon’s body is jittery, and he shifts in his stance, the broken part of me is thinking, ‘Don’t run. If he chases you, I don’t think you will survive.’ I shouldn’t care, but I’ve lived with cruelty and know the sight of it. It’s standing in a black suit before me.
My captor steps up to Eamon, and it’s like a shoe lined up against a dollar note. You can truly see the full size of the object. The object in question grabs Eamon by the neck and drags him to the glass wall. Eamon’s face hits it hard, and my jaw tightens as green eyes widen.
“I’ll do anything, Boss.” His face is shoved up harder against the glass.
“Yes, you will.” The words are spoken, but he’s looking at me, and there is a lull, like that moment after the flash of lightning, as you wait for the rattle of thunder. The glint of a knife catches my eye, but it disappears seconds later. Red liquid sprays in an arc across the glass as life seeps out of Eamon’s eyes. Fear chokes me, and my limbs give out as Eamon gasps and chokes as he makes a pathway down the glass before hitting the floor. The air thins, and I try to breathe in the sparse oxygen that doesn’t fuel my body—spots dance in front of me. A movement to my left has my attention. He’s moving toward the door.
CHA
PTER SEVEN
RICHARD
“Stand up.” I take a step away from Eamon’s dead body, which lies at my feet. I move away from the blood-smeared glass so I can see Claire.
Her head snaps up, and she’s crawling away from me.
A laugh bubbles up my throat, but it dies quickly as she curls herself into a ball.
“Stand up, Claire. Don’t make me come in there because if I do, I can promise you, it won’t be nice.”
Her spine is rod straight as she stands swiftly. Like the clear waters of some foreign holiday resort advertised on television, blue eyes stare at me.
“Take off your clothes.” My command has my cock hardening. I take another step around the box to get a better view of her for when she removes the dress; so far, she hasn’t. Maybe she wants me to come in.
Threatening her twice isn’t wise. The first time should be enough. I move to the door panel, and she sheds her dress, the white material pools around her ankles.
“It’s off.” Her voice is high-pitched.
I take my time starting from the tip of her toes all the way up her long legs; a few cuts still bleed. My fingers twitch with a need to clean her small wounds. Going into the box isn’t an option. An old scar on her knee has a story that I want to hear. Her thighs are tightly pressed closed, a few more cuts mar the flesh, but they aren’t bleeding.
White panties have my cock pushing against my zipper. My gaze drags across her flat stomach that has a few cuts all the way up to her perfect breasts that fill her white bra. I let my lip drag up as I reach her eyes. The ocean blue is a light behind her lashes.
“You’ve made a mess, Claire.”
She shivers at my voice, and I step away from the door and move so I’m closer to her.
“I want you to run yourself a bath.”
She drags her bottom lip in between her teeth. The action isn’t meant to be sexual, but it draws me to her mouth. When she releases her lip, a droplet of blood is visible from how hard she must have bitten the plush flesh. The urge to lick the blood off has me exhaling.
She takes my heavy breaths as a warning and walks promptly to the tub that she fills. I’m also glad to see that the feet of the tub are no longer gold.
She keeps glancing at me over her shoulder like she’s hoping I’m gone.
No such luck.
She fills up the tub and turns off the taps.
“Get in.”
She doesn’t turn to me; I’m faced with her back. My mind is stuck on her bleeding lip. She’s ready to step in when I stop her. “Take off your panties and bra.”
She lowers her foot to the ground. Her shoulders are taut with anger, no doubt. I hadn’t expected her to try to escape. I hadn’t expected her to fight so hard. I hadn’t expected to want her so badly.
The bra falls to the floor before she brushes her long blonde hair across her back. It brushes the small of her back, and my gaze drops lower as she gets out of her panties and steps into the tub, but not before I get to see her perfectly round ass.
She hisses, and I move around the glass so I can see her face. I know she tracks me. Her head slightly moves as I move around the box so I can see her properly. She draws her legs up to her chest, covering herself. I could demand her to lower her legs.
“I will have the doctor come to check your cuts later.”
She’s ready to object but doesn’t. Instead, she says nothing at all. I observe her as she stays huddled in the water. Annoyance grips me, and I feel the rush in my veins. I want to react. The thought flitters through my mind, and it’s a split second, but it’s enough to make me pause, and I don’t react to my emotions.
My fingers relax, my hands uncurl from the fists they had tightened themselves into. This is what my father can do. This is what he wants me to do. Control my emotions, my impulses. The first reaction isn’t always the right one.
The phone in my pocket buzzes. I didn’t want to be disturbed, but Davy’s name flashes on the screen. He’s upstairs. I don’t believe he’s worried about Eamon; something else must be wrong.
I take the phone out of my pocket and notice how Claire’s head moves, but she’s not looking directly at me. Yet, she’s listening.
With a flick of a button, I could cut off all sound to her, but I don’t. I answer the phone.
“Jack is here.” Davy’s voice is stiff. He doesn’t get wound up easily; Jack is on his shit list, along with most people.
“I’ll be up.” My cock is hard, and standing here watching Claire bathe this long is punishment enough. I hang up the phone.
Claire’s gaze finally reaches mine, and she flinches before dipping her head.
I leave Claire and go upstairs to see what Jack wants.
The moment I step out of the basement, he’s there pacing in front of the door.
“You’ve blood on you.” Jack’s words drag my attention to my shirt sleeve.
“You’re right. I do.” I let my lip move slightly like I might smile, but I don’t. I remove my suit jacket and hand it to Davy, who doesn’t look overly impressed to be my coat rack, but he wisely doesn’t complain.
Jack doesn’t ask any more questions about the blood.
“What did you say to Mam?”
I remove my cufflinks and place them in my pocket. I glare at Jack while I pass him and make my way upstairs. His footsteps click behind me.
“She was crying, Richard.”
“And why do you think it’s my fault?” My voice is emotionless. Once I reach the wide landing, I start to unbutton my shirt and enter the master bedroom.
“Three years, Richard.”
I turn to Jack as I pull off my shirt. “I was busy doing business in the Czech Republic.” The lie slips so easily off my tongue.
“Rough times in the Czech Republic?” Jack’s voice doesn’t hold the same amount of anger it had a few seconds ago.
I’ve turned my back to him. “I did it myself.” I know his dissolving anger is because of all the scars on my chest and stomach. Stepping into the closet, I select a fresh t-shirt. Covering up my past in the snug material, I leave the room. “What do you want me to do?”
He’s my big brother, but right now, he’s a fucking stranger. One I want out of my home.
“You’re a dickhead.” He shakes his head. “You didn’t have to leave.”
He is referring to my homecoming. After my toast to the family, things had gone downhill. My mother wouldn’t stop trying to force food down my throat, and Darragh grew drunker as the time passed. I had enough and left with my mother on my heels, asking me to wait for Dana, my sister, to arrive. If my sister had thought anything of me, she would have been there.
“You already have everyone half afraid to breathe around you.”
I fold my arms across my chest. “What the fuck is your point, Jack?”
His temper flares like I knew it would. I drop my arms, wanting him to hit me.
“I don’t know what’s going on with you, but it’s not adding up.”
He’s waiting for an answer. An answer I won’t give him. Not a truthful one, anyway.
“I’m back here to rule with you and father.”
Jack grinds his teeth. “You, rule?”
His tone is pissing me off. “Yes, Jack. Isn’t that what Kings do?”
Jack runs a hand across his face. “Look. A lot of shit happened since you’ve been gone.”
“Tell me,” I say. Removing my phone and cufflinks from my pocket, I place them on the glass table top of my dresser. I see my reflection and relax my jaw.
“Finn, first of all.”
I grin. It’s a grin I can’t stop. “Yeah, father told me.”
“Did he tell you I was there?”
I look at Jack now and let my grin turn into a full smile. “Did it damage you seeing your uncle getting shot? Are you damaged from it? Do you need therapy?”
Jack snorts. “Still the same, Richard. I thought three years would have helped you shake off some of that cockiness and anger.�
��
My anger has only grown.
“Again, Jack, I’m wondering what you are doing here.”
“It’s about Shay.”
I laugh. This keeps getting better. “Not about mother anymore?” I ask as I leave my room. Jack follows.
“It’s about both of them. I just want you to be a bit kinder to Mother.”
I grit my teeth. I didn’t want to argue about this. It would end up being a fucking pointless venture. “I’ll do my best.” I enter the living room and move towards the bar. Lifting the panel, I step behind the counter and lower the panel back down into place.
“Did she do something wrong?” Jack sounds exasperated.
“Do you want a drink?” I ask, removing two glasses from the shelf above my head.
“Yeah, whatever. Richard, I’m trying to fix things here.”
I take down a bottle of brandy and fill both our glasses. I place them on the bar. “No, she did nothing wrong.”
She did nothing.
Jack joins me at the bar and picks up the brandy. I don’t pick up mine. I don’t want to numb the turmoil in me. I watch Jack drink half his down, and when he sees I haven’t drunk mine, he quickly spits the content back into his glass. His face pales. “Did you poison it?”
“You think so little of me.” I pick up my glass of brandy and take a large swallow.
I want to see shame fill Jack’s eyes, but we O’ Reagans don’t seem to own that one particular emotion.
Jack pushes the glass back toward me and faces away from the bar. “Shay’s brother died a few years back, cage fighting. Do you remember it?” Jack turns to me.
I take another swallow of the brandy before answering. “Yes. I do.”
He nods his head like it’s great that we are on the same page. He steps up to the fireplace. “It wasn’t a fight; it was a setup. The cage master had been paid to take out Shay’s brother.”
I knew all this. I remain silent.
“Shay tracked down the cage master and got a photo of a guy who had paid her to set this all up.”
Jack touches a mahogany clock that ticks away on the mantel. “It was a ploy to stop Connor and Shay from fighting there. They were costing the establishment money by winning all the fights.”
